Iris Origo was born in 1902 and was instantly catapulted
into a life of "unfair advantages of birth, education, money, environment
and opportunity." But she used this birth-right wisely, and her legacy
includes a string of books apparently beloved and admired equally by
historians, biographers, and readers.
Iris spent her youth in the ancestral estate on Long Island
and in her grandfather's castle in Ireland. Her father died tragically when she
was eight, and she continued her peripatetic life with her indefatigable mother
and beloved governess. A woman who always knew her mind, in 1923 Origo bought
La Foce, an entire valley, almost feudal in organization, in the Val d'Orcia of
Tuscany. There for fifty years she worked tirelessly with her (Italian) husband,
improving the land and the lot of the peasants, saving endangered children from
the brutal incursions of the Nazis, and writing history and memoirs that are
still considered classics of the genre.
Origo was at once a woman of action and introspection, of
boundless curiosity and endearing innocence. She writes beautifully,
thoughtfully, and lucidly.
The introduction to her memoir is typical of her style: "It has
sometimes been pointed out to me that I have had a very varied and interesting
life, have lived in some extremely beautiful places and have met some
remarkable people. I suppose it is true, but now that I have reached `the end
game', I do not find myself dwelling upon these pieces on the board. The
figures that still stand out there now are the people to whom, in different
ways and in different degrees, I have been bound by affection. Not only are
they the people whom I most vividly remember, but I realise that it is only
through them that I have learned anything about life at all. The brilliant talk
that I heard at I Tatti in my youth, in Bloomsbury in the thirties, in New York
and Rome in later years, has lost some of its glitter. All that is left to me
of my past life that has not faded into mist has passed through the filter, not
of my mind, but of my affections. What has not warmed by them is now for me as
if it had never been."
Born into an
international family, Origo spent her childhood years between her paternal
grandparents' estate in Westbrook, Long Island, her maternal grandparents' home
in Great Britain, and her mother's villa in Fiesole. Although her father died
early, he made sure his daughter grew up devoid of limiting national identity
and open to different cultural influences. Her mother instilled a passion for
travel and books. While grateful to her family for the comfort and care they
provided, Origo portrays certain aspects of her upbringing with restrained
criticism.
Her proper British mother, for instance, insisted on Origo's private
education by governesses and tutors, opposed her desire to enroll in
university, and committed her to a tasteless, nauseatingly ``healthy'' diet. In
hindsight, Origo considers her period of ``coming out'' into high society a
considerable waste of time. Readers, however, will appreciate her colorful
accounts of balls and theater visits as a glimpse of elite diversions in bygone
days. Origo's descriptions of early 20th-century American magnates and patrons
of the arts and her detailed reconstruction of Italian landowners' traditional
life are among many other engaging passages. Sketching her own character in an
irreproachably modest tone, she commands respect for her ability to apply her
superb education, knowledge of the world, and financial means to worthy causes.
She helped modernize devastated farmland in Tuscany, volunteered in the Red
Cross during WWII, and sheltered orphaned children at her home after the war.
This active, creative attitude arises out of Origo's profound sense of being
``singularly fortunate,'' despite some personal tragedies a rare and therefore doubly
appealing trait. Along with its exquisite style and thought-provoking
digressions on the philosophy of writing, this autobiography documents
fascinating experiences of the modern European and American aristocracy.
She is marvellous at nuances of place and personality,
writing with a subtle mingling of candour and affection that lingers in the
mind.
Images and Shadows seems to be one of a few of her a books which are still in print (or rather reprinted in a lovely 1999 Nonpareil edition). It is time her other books saw the light of day again eg her 1953 biography of the Italian poet Leopardi whose proliferous Notebooks have just been published in a huge translated version,
Two sad departures – the lovely small Tabak café which
occupied the back of the National Gallery building (the old Palace) and spread
on to the quiet garden area leading up to the Russian Church was
unceremoniously bundled out of its space a few months back. By the Minister of
Culture himself apparently – for failure to pay back rent due. I loved the
challenge the cafe represented to political correctness – and also the serenity of
the garden section with its views of various statues. 
